Tearing the Veil
by Grand Delusions
Summary: Post-game. After the Blight, Alistair is crowned King and Elissa Cousland lies dead. But when mages retrieve her from the Fade and she is discovered alive; Alistair, Wynne, Zevran, Lelina, and Elissa all must face the consequences of tearing the Veil.
1. Prologue

Title: Tearing the Veil

Author: Grand Delusions

Disclaimer: Dragon Age is the property of Bioware and EA Games.

Summary: Post-game. "With a loud crack and a hurricane of light, the Veil was torn." The Blight defeated and the Grey Warden Elissa Cousland dead. But there are those that will journey beyond the Veil to retrieve her.

Author's Note: I haven't posted written fanfiction in a long time, and not in this fandom before, but like many others have, I found the characters and story absolutely compelling. This story developed in my mind after different play throughs watching the minor characters interact with the PC.

-o-

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Prolouge**

-o-

Elissa Cousland sighed, resting her head against the gnarled tree at her back. Above her the clouds swam aimlessly through the sky, shapes weaving and colliding into new forms across the pale backdrop . From her place on the hill, the plains stretched out before her into the distance.

Into infinity. Forever. Eternity.

She shuttered at the thought, her eyes starring emptily into the void.

A breeze rustled the few blades of grass stubborn enough to pierce the hard earth, and the twisted, barren branches cracked overhead; yet, she felt no wind. The sun's rays filtered through the clouds, casting scattered puddles of light against the land; yet, she felt no warmth.

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her bent legs, and inclined forward to rest her chin against her knees. Her eyes again found the line that divided the limitless bounds of land from sky, then eyes became unfocused and clouded. Vision muddled as she searched for something just beyond.

"Still here, Warden?" the voice seemed to come from her every side, surrounding her as though originating from her mind, shattering her silent revere. A sharp glance to her left confirmed her suspicions: the spirit stood an arm's reach away.

He appeared to have the form of a human, yet Elissa suspected it was simply for her own comfort and familiarity. Had she been an elf, she imagined the spirit would appear to her as such. But there was something oddly calming about the presence.

She had studied his appearance before, and after the first several times he visited her she concluded that he reminded her very much of one tutor from her early adolescence. Whether the form simply was his attempt to put her at ease, or a result from him seeing into her own mind, a confused merging of memories and delusions; she could not tell.

"I find I am not yet anxious to part from your company," she answered at length, sarcasm faintly coloring the edges of her tone. She turned her eyes back to the eternal expanse.

"Ah, but the Second-Born are not meant to live here, only to pass through on their way to the Maker."

"_Live_?" she caught onto the word, clinging to it, snarling bitterly as she threw it back.

"Apologies, Warden."

She shrugged, instantly forgiving the offense. He meant nothing cruel by the expression and she had long ago reconciled herself to her present state. Eventually she might even accept it. After all, she had all the time she needed. Eternity spread out before her, forbidding and vast like the dark void of the ocean.

All the time in the world...

Her eyes suddenly focused and flicked over the horizon, almost finding a distant point just beyond the Veil.

Almost. She could _almost_ sense it, beyond the murky confines that trapped her in here, she could just make it out…

Then it was gone, like stars melting on the dawn.

Frowning, she resumed her search.

"She worries about him, you know?" the spirit took a step towards her, turning his eyes to join hers scanning the distance.

"Who?"

"The one you call Wynne."

"I gathered that you meant her. And coyness does not suit you."

"Nor does it suit you," he retorted. "She worries over the boy, as you well know."

"He's not a boy," she scoffed.

"Do you know how many years I have seen, Warden?" the spirit asked. "How many lifetimes and eras and ages? I have seen them fly by like a bird on the wind."

She remained silent for a hundred eternities before asking, in a voice softer than a whisper as she turned to the spirit: "How do you know she worries about him?"

The form tilted his head to the side once she sheepishly looked up. "You doubt my abilities to discern her feelings, or simply seek to gratify your own guilt?"

She made no answer.

He turned back to the distance, looking at what she could not, keeping silent vigil over her hunched form.

"She knows he is growing tired under the weight of your absence, and she does not know how to heal this injury."

"My _absence_," she smirked, mockery provided a thin veneer to cover despair. "You speak of it as if it were a temporary departure on one hand, and on the other as though I broke his heart."

"Didn't you?"

She let out as shuttering breath. The spirit's voice held no anger, no resentment or accusations, only simple curiosity tinted his otherwise mellow tone.

"I did what I had to do. What was best. I have no regrets."

"Pity. If only you could look up at me from your spot on the ground as you said that, reveal your eyes so that I might see your soul as you say such things, and I might be inclined to believe you."

"What point would there be to regret it?" she snapped. "So I could spent eternity mulling over my regrets? I'd go mad!"

"And yet, here you are, staring into the void, desperately searching for glimpses of him past the Fade."

A faint snort of laughter escaped her lips. "I'd hardly call this desperate. There's little else to do for eternity."

The spirit remained silent. At length, she looked up to see if he had left, and found him smiling sadly. Her eyebrows furrowed with the unspoken question.

Then the spirit lowered himself to the ground, sitting beside her, and Elissa tried to remember if he had ever done this before. All she could remember was the spirit standing over and away, just near the tree, yet away from her.

"You are not meant to exist forever in the Fade, Warden," the spirit explained patently, gently, with almost pity in his voice. "You are Second-Born, and not from this realm. You are only meant to pass through as you return to the Maker's side. This is not meant to be your eternity, for you are not First-Born. This oblivion is only for the disbelievers amongst your kind. Do not punish yourself needlessly in a purgatory of your own creation when you are meant to move on."

"I miss him," she offered brokenly. "I know it hasn't been long beyond the Fade, but it's been a thousand forevers between each glimpse I get of him."

"And a thousand will grow for each moment you stay. You were never meant to see beyond the Veil as we here do. The ability will dim with use into nothing."

"It's already growing harder for me to look through the Veil," she confessed.

"And how long will you remain stealing seconds of him? Until he forgets you? Marries? Not that I do not enjoy your company, but you can leave, be happy, embrace an eternity beyond this at the Maker's side."

"I do not yet know. A little while longer, at least."

"Then I will wait with you, Warden, until you are ready," the spirit replied, resuming his typical position, standing apart from her, facing the same line of the horizon.

She murmured her thanks, once again turning her attention back to the distance.


	2. Chapter 1

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 1**

-o-

It was faint when it first appeared. She was sure she had imagined it.

A strange flicker of light danced at the base of the hill.

At first, the variation was ignored; the otherwise consistent environment gave her little cause to give her sight alone much credence. Her gaze returned to the void. Surely it could be nothing more than a wisp, or some fantasy of her own mind.

But the dim spark grew in strength. It fluttered, winking and glimmering as it became brighter.

Frowning, her concentration broken, Elissa stood. She squinted against the bright first rays of light and watched as the spark grew into a glittering orb of light. A vertical sheet of light stretched out from the orb, light piercing the dull surrounds above and below and to the sides, casting light against an invisible plane until it formed something of a door.

A large crack split the silence, echoing through the Fade. The light died instantly, and in its place stood a young redheaded woman.

Elissa eyelids fluttered as ghostly spots danced behind across her vision.

Surely eternity was already driving her mad.

"Thank the Maker I've found you," the stranger smiled with relief. "Not that I would ever think I'd be thanking Him for any of this, but here you are!"

She was clearly a mage to be stumbling into the Fade so deliberately, and although Elissa could only recall less than a handful of mages she had known, there was something oddly familiar about this woman.

"I don't understand," Elissa looked apprehensively between the woman and the spirit.

"You will, soon. But, as it is, I have little time, and even less lyrium remaining." The mage swayed unsteadily as she climbed the steep embankment of the hill, clearly worn and wearily from too much time spent wandering the extents of the Fade. "We really must be off," stated, coming to stand before Elissa under the gnarled tree.

"I…" Elissa trailed off, confused and overwhelmed. A memory suddenly clamored against her consciousness, begging for recognition. "Wait, I know you, don't I?" If only she could remember who this woman was.

"Yes, you do, and I will explain later once we have time. We really must go. I have spent more of my lifetime searching the Fade for you than I thought possible."

"Searching?" Elissa wondered aloud. "And where are you proposing to take me?"

"Well _back_, of course. Where else would I take you? Surely not some other corner of the Fade."

She stared blankly at the mage.

"Back past the Veil," the mage spoke as though Elissa should have already known this, but she had never heard of such a thing.

"You can do that?"

"Only one way for you to find out," the mage said, a tight smile failing to mask her growing impatience.

She couldn't begin to imagine what she might be risking, or if this was more than just the addled dream of a lonely girl trapped in death before she was ready. Surely she would be left alone in the Fade once this delusion drama concluded. It would simply be better to wave off the vision and resume her watch over the distance. Better that than to be disappointed once the dream disappeared and she remained.

"You're not real, are you?"

"At the moment, here in the Fade, I suppose I'm not, exactly, physically present," the mage shrugged, unfazed. "But I assure you, my spirit is here and I am quite real, as are you."

Elissa's brow furrowed, her lips pursed together, a quizzical expression scarring her features.

"Can you think of some reason you would concoct such an elaborate vision with me here?" the mage challenged.

"No," she whispered.

_Maybe…_

The mage nodded, apparently satisfied.

"You do know me," the stranger offered softly, a quiet plea for an ounce of trust.

Elissa wanted to ask where this woman came from. How she arrived. Why she arrived. How the mage knew to be searching for Elissa when she shouldn't have even remained in the Fade to begin with.

Suddenly, Elissa gasped. A scene trapped from the past flooded her memory with all the bright clarify of the sun piercing through the clouds. She remembered the mage.

Then perhaps there was a chance she was not dreaming

_Just maybe…_

"Are you coming?"

She turned on her heel to the spirit. She had made her choice.

"Oh why should I bother asking," he shook his head. "It's clear you have already decided which path you'll take."

"May I tell--?"

"Yes," the spirit cut her off, "You may tell your Wynne of me, if you wish. Not that she doesn't already know of my existence."

She was suddenly hesitant. What an odd inquiry to make to one with whom she'd shared so much in such a small fragment of forever. "But, what shall I refer to you as?"

The spirit tilted his head, as she had often seen him do. This time, rather than seeking the answer tucked away in a far corner of his mind, Elissa thought he looked as though he was trying to answer a question which he had never considered before.

"You may call me Beathan," he answered at length.

"Thank you," she whispered, as the mage took both her hands in hers and lead her down the hill.

Elissa saw the mage take her hands, but though she could see the contact, she felt nothing. Still, she followed, failing at squelching the hope bubbling inside her.

"Do take care, Warden" the spirit called after her as the mage began chanting melodically under her breath. "Though you now find yourself suddenly willing to part ways and leave me bereft of company, I believe that I do not wish to see you back here too soon."

"I'll try," she returned, a grin playing on her lips that he had never seen before.

The space between the mage and Elissa's clasped hands vibrated, a pulsing ringing began, the ripple originating with them and echoing outward. The air shifted from the foggy, hazed color and took on a vivid light. She thought she felt her heart drumming frantically in her ears with anxious anticipation, but of course that was impossible.

"Particularly," the spirit continued, watching with a false disinterest, "since the Maker may not be particularly inclined to let you join Him now that you've insisted not to be confined to Death. Quite highhanded of you."

The light grew, pulling and pushing against the environs of the Fade. Sparks of light escaped the glow, firing little stars around them.

"It would be a great tragedy, I think, should that happen," he mused, even as the thunder began to crackle and the light seemed to roar. His words died before reaching her ears.

Elissa looked up from the beams of light vibrating wildly from the two sets of joined hands. She tried to find the spirit past the curtain of light surrounding him. She could _almost_ make out the twisted shape of the dead tree. The light became blinding and she shut her eyes. Streams of light streaked skywards beyond her eyelids. Breathing in, she prepared to shout a parting farewell to her strange companion, but the light swallowed her and the mage whole, ripping them from the Fade.

With a loud crack and a hurricane of light, the Veil was torn.

-o-

_A/N: Beathan is a name of Gaelic origin meaning 'life,' which seemed appropriate for Wynne's spirit guardian. The identity of the mage will be revealed in the next chapter. She is a character that appears in DA:O. Those helping her will also be revealed in Chapter 2. Main party members will begin to appear in Chapter 3. Currently I've written to four (and a half) chapters ahead of posting schedule, and I will try to post updates on Saturdays, once a week. Thanks for reading._


	3. Chapter 2

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 2**

-o-

Voices swam through the foggy oceans of unconsciousness, distant and faint, drowned out by the slow, steady pounding of her heart in her ears. Vertigo battled her body, and though she recognized the firm support of the mattress below her, fear rose up inside her and she dreaded the approaching moment when she would crash into the ground.

Nausea prickled the back of her throat, and world spun faster. Her hands sought an anchor…

Fingers twitched against the sheets, rough skin snagging the loose fibers. She felt--

She _felt_.

Her feet ached as though placed in vices after being broken. Muscles groaned in protest at each breath. Her limbs pulsed pain, so heavy she couldn't begin to fathom actually moving them. Her eyes, though closed, felt on fire. She didn't yet chance the immeasurable pain of opening her eyes.

With each breath she noticed the faint stench of charred flesh and decay. Her tongue was parched and tasted faintly of bile and lyrium, and a faint metallic twinge lingered that could possibly be blood.

Shadows moved in a myriad of reds, orange, and violets behind her eyelids. Voices rose and fell with the colors, inching forward before retreating into the darkness and silence.

Eventually instinct took over and the desire to access her surroundings won out.

A single eyelid moved. A thin sliver of light broke through, brilliant and blinding. The constant timbre of a drum beat against her head. The light and sound overwhelming her, suffocating the infant questions that had just began forming in her mind, and Elissa Cousland at last succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

-o-

Up the stairs just off the adjacent foyer, the thin, aging mage held court. Fanned across the heavy oak table, every color and consistency of potion and ingredient stood ready. Each painstakingly grouped into castes and categories, waiting to be called.

The mage selected the vials, surveying the contents and took a slow, cleansing breath willing his hands to steady. In each hand, he held a thin, glass vial. He drew one vial up to the level of his eyes, carefully checking the quantity before bringing the second glass up to catch the liquid...

The sound of footsteps behind him caused him to flinch, but was only a mild distraction. He prepared to tip the glass...

The youth placed several bottles of blue liquid onto the table. Good. The merchant apparently asked no questions. He had been concerned the frequent trips for additional supplies of lyrium would alarm their neighbor. But luck appeared to still be on their side.

"She's been _sleeping_ for _days_," the young, dark-haired mage moved to stand beside the elder mage.

He frowned to himself, rolling his eyes as he considered the annoying inconsideration of the youth.

In addition to this room there was the study-turned-infirmary where the Warden lay, a foyer, small laboratory, and private quarters crammed into the tower. But here, in his private sanctum, this hallowed hall of academia and philosophy; where he had learned so much, sacrificed so much, committed so much…

He remained silent, refusing to entertain the fool's need for conversation. Not when there was so much work to be done.

"And she's been _dead_ for _weeks_." A second voice.

The aged man looked up, shooting a stern glare towards the most recent distraction.

The woman had situated herself on the wide sill of the newly repaired window. It was not meant as a window seat, yet she had somehow managed to hoist herself up to the ledge. How she managed to climb there Avernus would never know. She looked down at the young mage standing beside him and waited for response. She should have known better than to invite the fool to speak!

"But what if we did something wrong? We can't even tell if anything worked. Maybe you did the spell wrong, recited the incantation incorrectly."

"Jowan, I didn't do a thing wrong," the woman snapped. "I cast the spell perfectly."

"If something went _wrong_--"

"_If_ something went wrong," she interrupted, "which, it_ didn't_, Avernus would have noticed."

"Nothing is wrong," Avernus snapped, finally joining the fray as he placed the vials in waiting holders. "Though if you two cannot carry on in silence for more than a moment whilst I finish here, then there will be problems."

Avernus cast a sharp glance at both of them, pleased to see they at least possessed the decency to _appear_ contrite. He doubted they actually were. He was, however, content that he would at have a temporary respite, and completed the mixing of ingredients.

"Ciara," he held the vial out to the woman. She slid down from the sill, the ball of one foot landing on the oak table as she hopped to the floor. Glasses rattled at the disruption. The old mage leveled a warning look, but she evaded his gaze and moved to take the potion from his outstretched hands.

"Make sure she drinks it all." It was pointless to repeat the instructions after near a week of performing their evening ritual, but she nodded her understanding and turned to retreat into the Warden's room. Jowan followed at her heels, as always; ready to assist lifting the Warden to sitting as he had before.

Half an hour later and the pair returned to his side. Ciara his right hand, and Jowan his left, as it was in most things. The trio wordlessly crossed the large chamber through the small entry room, and to the small side room. Filing through the door, they assembled to one side of the room, silently observing the patient before they repeated the path back to the sanctum and the oak table and the evening cermony was complete.

They had yet to break silence and speak in the Warden's room. Conversations regarding the Warden were best left to the laboratory.

"What do you think?" Ciara ventured, eying Avernus once they returned to the large chamber.

"Better," he stated. "She appears to be breathing on her own. The last of the protective wards should only be necessary a day or two longer. Soon we can reduce the dosages."

"When will she wake?" the strained tone in Jowan's voice betrayed his passive features.

Avernus thought on this. When Elissa Cousland had been wrenched from the Fade, and placed back into a decomposed, burnt shell of a body the shock of reuniting soul and flesh almost finished her instantly. Since then, a steady regimen of potions, spells, and lyrium had stabilized her condition. In the past two days she had even begun to improve, her color returning as her body mended. She even occasionally drifted just shy of consciousness.

"A week or two," he speculated, "perhaps more."

"And then what?" Jowan asked. Avernus chanced a glance over at Ciara, unsurprised to see her gawking at him—at her perceived ridiculousness of a question. Eyes wide and mouth hung open, her expression reminded him of a fish. It was no matter; she was more of Avernus' mind than the other.

"Whatever do you mean?" The question was one of indifference. In truth, Avernus could not imagine caring any less than he already did to discover what the young mage meant. He had little patience for idle speculation at this point, and even less for Jowan's constant infantile needs for assurances.

Avernus grabbed a worn book from one of the shelves, clearing space enough at his table to open the tome. After finding the first blank page and a quill, he began scratching notes. Ciara, ever the dutiful apprentice, stood nearby, quietly reading the words as he wrote.

"I simply want to know what we plan to do once she wakes. I mean, she's hardly going to respond favorably to finding herself in the company of three blood mages." Jowan began to pace behind the pair.

"Jowan," Ciara tossed a puckish smile over her shoulder at him, "we're reformed."

"As though she'll believe that," he derided.

"I imagine," Avernus muttered between strokes of the quill, "she will be overcome with the notion of actually being _alive_."

"And once she's recovered from the shock, she'll be off for the templars."

"I very much doubt that," Ciara turned away, taking several steps to the sanctum's entrance, Jowan shadowing her. Eyebrows furrowed and a frown born of concentration painted across her features, she stared through the foyer at the door leading to Elissa's room. "The three of us here speak quite poorly of her ability to strike down blood mages. No. The problem will be once she leaves. Once they ask begin to ask questions. All of Denerim saw her body lying in state."

Behind her, Avernus intoned his agreement, the non-verbal sounds timed to the continued scratching of quill and paper. Beside her, Jowan, the ever apprehensive accomplice shifted from one foot to the next, uncertain as ever. Before her, the Warden, unknowingly hanging in the balance.

Frown lines vanished, replaced with a self-approving smirk. Once again, Ciara concluded with satisfaction, the decision fell to her.

"We must dispose of her," she decided, "before she wakes. We cannot risk the threat of her knowing our role in this."

"Are you saying we brought her back to life just to _kill_ her?" Jowan exclaimed.

"Don't be ridiculous," Ciara shook her head. "I simply mean she must be moved. She cannot wake up here, and she cannot know it was us. Any implications that would lead us to the Chantry would be… unpleasant."

Avernus cleared his throat before adding: "I agree. Knowledge of our involvement could potentially hamper any future research. But, I won't risk it before she's taken all the necessary potions. She must be stable before relocation."

"Since you've thought of everything, Ciara," Jowan crossed his arms, clearly skeptical, "surely you have already decided where we will be taking her."

"I--," she suddenly looked unsure, "well, I'm not entirely certain where we can take her. What of your contact?"

Jowan snorted at the term. "What of him? He was more a temporary ally of convenience. And I wouldn't know how to reach him. Hardly a contact really."

"As it is," Avernus interjected, "we have days still before we must decide. Jowan, go find that Dryden boy. This isn't near enough lyrium. I know he keeps more hidden away for me."

"Are you certain he doesn't suspect anything?" Jowan worried. "He doesn't seem to like me much."

"Hush," Avernus brushed off his concern. "He's simply disappointed I didn't send Ciara down there instead. Besides, he knows this is the cost for living with a scholar. I assure you he is quite used to it-- I'm only glad I have you two to send off on my errands rather than wait for that damned fellow to deem it necessary to finally check in on me."

-o-

Jowan continued his usual trek from the entrance of the laboratory past the empty cages and covered pits to the base of the large stone platform. At each pass he would look up to see Avernus silently mixing concoctions at his station.

Ciara sat near the steps leading up the platform, the dark wood arm chair had been relocated from another room in the tower. Threadbare pillows provided little relief from long hours against the unyielding seat and back and Ciara shifted, turning a page of the worn volume she balanced on her lap.

"I don't understand how the two of you can just sit there so calmly," Jowan finally ceased pacing, his gaze moving between the two.

"Only one of us is actually _sitting_," Avernus replied.

"Are you not the least bit troubled by the fact that we stole a body?"

"Clearly the longer he is not focused on running from the Chantry, the more his guilt grows. Most extraordinary. However did he work up the gall to escape the Circle in the first place?" Avernus muttered to himself, yet loud enough for Jowan to hear his condescension.

"It's not as though we'll get caught," Ciara shrugged as she turned another page. "The decoy was sent off to Anderfels, and it's not as though those Wardens will recognize the difference. As far as Feredan knows, nothing is amiss."

"_We_ didn't steal anything, Jowan," Avernus added pointedly.

"Well forgive me if I'm a little on edge. Lest you forget that _I_ was the one to be there that poor girl was killed by the--"

"You weren't seen," Ciara interrupted, her unsympathetic words unable to console him.

Jowan shrugged helplessly, grinding his toe into the stone floor.

"Besides," she reasoned, "we needed a convincing double."

"We took an innocent life. How does that equal 'reformed?'"

"She was a means to an end," Avernus added. "We needed a body to take the place of the Warden's. And the girl served more in death than many do in life."

"You weren't there," Jowan glared at Avernus. "And _you_," he turned to the woman, "you simply pointed me at your target and then disappeared. You left me to do the rest."

"It was necessary," she argued. "And you have more experience dealing with corpses than I."

Jowan took one stumbling step backwards. "That was low, even for you," he seethed.

She closed the book softly, setting the tome across her lap.

"You did remarkably," she encouraged with more praise than Jowan felt was appropriate given the subject matter. "You retrieved the Warden without incident. Placed the decoy with minimal complications. Besides it's not as though you were the one actually _holding_ the dagger, from what you've told me. Shouldn't that ease your conscious some?"

"Two of the knights guarding the body ended up dead. A girl died whose only crime was an uncanny resemblance to the Warden. And don't think that the palace doesn't suspect something."

"Why would they?" Ciara asked.

"Two guards dead and a midnight scuffle where the Warden's body was lying in state?" Avernus interjected without turning to face the pair. "You can be sure they are investigating, especially with that sniveling, heartsick fool for a king. But there is no reason for them to link any of it to us. Jowan's informant would be taken in for questioning long before they would suspect us."

"Until the long-dead Warden comes waltzing into Denerim," Jowan mocked. Ciara rolled her eyes at the comment.

"I think I know how to return her to the palace." Avernus turned to face the two younger mages. "We may be able to return her Highever instead of Denerim, and with fewer complications. But, it would be easier should Jowan locate his contact."

Jowan frowned. He had told Avernus on several occasions over the past few weeks that he didn't even know the informant's name, much less his usual place of residence, or any method of contacting him. The only thing he could think of would be to retrace his own previous steps in an attempt to happen upon him. But the other two mages watched him expectantly. And it did seem to be the only available course.

"I'll see what I can do," he reluctantly agreed.

"Excellent. Off to the capital with you," Avernus turned back to the table behind him, reaching for the now-familiar colored vial. He held it out to Ciara. "But first, it's time for the Warden's medicine."

-o-

_A/N: So, mostly a filler chapter, but a bit of explanation for the previous chapter and a set-up for situations explored in chapter 6. Ciara is the female blood mage from the Broken Circle Quest who asks the PC to spare her life. Although DA:O provides no name for this character, I felt the Ciara (meaning "dark" in Gaelic) suited how I perceive her personality: a mix of naivety and ruthlessness. The 'sniveling heartsick fool' of a king (finally) shows up next chapter. Thank you to everyone who has placed this story on favorites or alerts. I would love to hear feedback regarding what you've read thus far._


	4. Chapter 3

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 3**

-o-

"I simply think you should consider their suggestion," Eamon offered.

"The answer is no."

"Your Majesty--" the arl began.

"Eamon," Alistair held up his hand and groaned. "Don't. They've all left. The servants and guards haven't a hope of hearing into this room. Don't stand on ceremony when there's no one around to appreciate it."

"Alistair, surely you knew the Landsmeet would discuss you taking a wife."

"I did," he said quietly. "And I know I must. I simply didn't expect them to be demanding it so soon after…"

He trailed off as his eyes were drawn to the roaring fireplace. The sparks sputtered and flew as one log broke open. His mind was brought back a memory of smoke and wood and fire; steel piercing bone and blood bursting forth like the sparks from the flames.

"It's not been two months," he raked his hand through his hair and began to pace the width of the hearth.

"I realize it's soon," Eamon conceded. "But I find myself agreeing with them."

Alistair turned abruptly, his eyes drawing to narrow slits. "You_ what_?" He spat lowly, sharply. The hissing fire almost drowned out his words.

"There is nothing wrong with having a life companion to help carry your burdens."

The tense set of his face fell away swiftly, ire settling into sorrow and loss. "Though the only one fit for the role is now dead," he breathed.

He shook his head. He was bitter, still not fully able to believe that his life had transformed into this hollow shell in her absence. She was dead and he was left behind. Her body stolen and whereabouts unknown. A conveniently left corpse set on a slab in her stead with all the honor afforded to the Hero of Ferelden. A helmet to cover the decoy so that Denerim might not learn of their treachery.

"And now the imposter is off to the Anderfels," he said. "I half expect a letter to arrive from Weisshaupt's any day demanding to know what I've done. You can bet that if anyone will know a fake Warden on sight, it would be them."

"We acted as necessary," Eamon offered by way of reminder, though they both knew the rumors that hid in the darkened corners of taverns and abandoned stretches of alleys. Wherever friends might gather, people whispered in secrecy of the suspicion of the stolen hero. In Ferelden, gossip was as rampant as the rats.

Eamon watched helpless as the King resumed his route before the fire. In all his years, through even the desolation of the Occupation and the Blight, he had never seen a man so haunted and broken. And while Alistair had quickly mastered the art of leadership, hiding away his misgivings and insecurities behind a face of resolve and confidence; Eamon found himself increasingly concerned about the boy (for he was just barely a man) more in these private moments when the King returned to Alistair.

Alistair paused before the fireplace, resting his elbow against the wide mantle. He cradled his head in his palm. "What type of malevolence drives one to steal a body?" he whispered. "Kill guards and quite likely murder a woman for the crime of a passing similarity, and for what?"

"We are still making inquiries."

"I know," he nodded. "Wynne mentioned you two spoke of as much. "

Eamon was unsurprised she had told him. He could only think of two others afforded this familiarity of seeing the King in such a state. The enchanter, no doubt condoled with him more than even Eamon. Though the arl had raised him for a time, Wynne knew the Warden, knew Alistair, knew the two of them together fighting a Blight. The Orleasian bard, Wynne's second, was the other, though she no doubt was present for fewest instances out of the three.

Alistair stared town at the hearth, watching the light from the fire dance across the stone surface. Eamon shifted uneasily as the moments waned on in silence. He empathized with Alistair's grief, one would have to be inhuman to not, but he knew he could never understand the depths of the young man's pain. Such a raw display of anguish left those observers feeling awkward. Eamon found that he often felt awkward after private audiences with the King.

"Tell them I will begin looking for a wife after next year's harvest," Alistair decided at length.

"So long?"

"I must have time to grieve," he murmured. "I will not drag some poor woman into this when I still see _her_ everywhere. It wouldn't be right."

"There will be resistance to waiting."

"There is always resistance. Tell them I will do as they ask," Alistair countered, then his voice breaking into a strained whisper, "just not now."

Eamon nodded sympathetically. "I will make them understand."

The King nodded, still facing the fireplace. He had not turned to his advisor through most of the exchange, something that would have troubled Eamon had it not become commonplace.

"You may go, if you will," Alistair offered, casting a glance to the window, noting the dying light as the day slunk into night. "I imagine Lady Isolde will want you for dinner."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Eamon bowed, pleased to hear Alistair's responding scoff. It was the least despondent the king had sounded all day.

"I suppose I'll forgive you for the slight," Alistair smirked before returning his gaze to the fire. The forced tone wilting away between the span of two heartbeats. "Old habits die hard and whatnot."

Eamon moved the door, grateful to be dismissed.

"Oh, one more thing, Eamon," the Alistair's voice trailed after him. The broken, sad timbre of his voice had been replaced by the steady, resolved tone of a king.

Eamon turned. Alistair had not moved.

"When the time comes for all this queen nonsense, I trust you will not bring any names forward that the Teyrn of Highever has not given you his expressed approval for."

"Your M-- Alistair," Eamon stuttered, "I hardly think it would be _appropriate_ for Fergus Cousland to be involved in searching for your potential wife."

The silence returned, powerful and dreadful as ever.

"He was her brother. She loved him, respected him more than anyone," he answered, his voice almost breaking. "I cannot abide the thought that my choice of bride might inadvertently slight the nearest relation to the only woman I will ever love. It will be a difficult enough time for the both of us even without all the politics."

And then Alistair abandoned his post by the fire, moving to window to observe the first stars winking into the night sky, keeping his back to Eamon as he would often when he made a decision he knew the arl would disagree with.

"I'm hardly asking you to broach the matter with him now," Alistair continued in a firmer voice. "I know how these political games work. Would that I could still call myself just a Grey Warden and was ignorant of political intrigue . I know half the nobility with daughters within a decade of me are already planning ways for them to be noticed at court."

Eamon nodded to himself. It was true. Many of the lords from the Bannon had descended upon Denerim in the recent weeks. Few nobles had risked returning to the city still recovering from the darkspawn horde for Alistair's coronation. Now flocks of them visited the palace daily, wishing to pay respects and gain an audience with the young King. He hadn't realized Alistair had picked up so quickly on how transparent decorum could be.

"And we currently only have one teyrn," Alistair added almost as an afterthought. "It won't do to be burning bridges with one of the most respected families in Ferelden."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Eamon noticed that this time, his use of title met no resistance. The King's postured stiffened at the address, but he did not correct him. Alistair had retreated back into the role of monarch, and it pained Eamon that Alistair felt the need to do it around him.

"And Eamon," Alistair finally turned to face him. His eyes firm and resolved, his stance commanding. His look leveled any qualms Eamon still had with his decision. "When the time comes to bring this matter to the Teyrn, I trust you to handle this matter with all the respect and delicacy it deserves."

Eamon would have been insulted, _should_ have been insulted by the implications, had he not been present to see Alistair and the Cousland girl in the days leading up to the Battle of Denerim. He knew why her brother's respect was paramount to the King.

"Of course."

"Thank you," Alistair breathed before waving him off.

As Eamon passed through the corridor, the image of Alistair before the fireplace etched into his mind, he realized with some shame that he had no idea how the young King spent his evenings when not embroiled in politics and governance.

At first, he imagined that Alistair would pass his evenings in one of the stately drawing rooms with the enchanter and the bard. Even the Antivan was known to frequent the palace, and Eamon had also heard from the servants of a dwarf visiting from time-to-time.

But now, Eamon wondered if that was really the case, if Wynne just arranged for their old companions to call in an attempts to draw him out from the room. With a start, Eamon realized he couldn't remember a single evening leaving the palace where the King had not cloistered himself in the safety of his study.

Before leaving the estate, Eamon made his usual stop at the south drawing room, taking his leave of the usual cast.

The dog, _her_ dog, stretched out before the fireplace, warming himself before the blaze. The mabari mimicking Alistair, so often by the fire, and always absorbed in grief of the most acute kind. Eamon supposed it to be because both the dog and the boy had both, in a sense, been imprinted to her, and they mourned her loss in a similar fashion.

Wynne sat in her usual chair, a worn book in one hand, idly playing with a ribbon serving as a bookmark with the other. The Orlesian often worked on crafts, small fashionable tasks like embroidering handkerchiefs and decorating hats that Isolde herself was habit to; had circumstances been different, he believed the two might have made good friends. Although once Eamon thought he saw her restringing a bow.

The mabari was the first to notice him standing in the doorway. Taking this as his indication that his adopted master was free from others, the dog rose, stretched lazily before trotting past Eamon into the corridor. Eamon didn't need to speculate his destination.

As the dog made his departure, Wynne turned. Her questioning eyes softened, noticing the stained expression on the arl's face. They nodded to each other, a silent signal that had developed over the past weeks on evenings when the King became particularly despondent. Not a word was said--servants traveled more frequently through these halls, but the meaning was clear.

Wynne collected her book and moved to the door. Eamon's daily ritual drew to a close, as Wynne left to begin hers.

-o-


	5. Chapter 4

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 4**

-o-

"So we are to spend the evening entertained in the King's private study?" Zevran asked upon entering the room.

Alistair remained at his frequent post by the window. His forearm rested against the jamb as he stared out into the abyss of sky and stars.

Wynne and Leliana had chosen a small games table for their locale. The mage faced the window, peering over the rim of her book to keep a watchful eye on the King . Her back was to the door, and consequently, to Zevran.

The bard sat opposite her friend, facing the entrance. Across her half of the table a large thick cloth covered the ornate wooden inlays decorating the furniture's surface. Ash rods scattered onto an assortment of piles of colored feathers and metal points. A meager, but tidy collection of completed arrows lined the cloth's edge.

Leliana smiled a silent greeting to the elf as another arrow joined its companions. The glass bottle in her hands returned to the clothed surface and she wiped her fingers together, attempting to remove the remaining glue.

"And what an honor for His Majesty himself to be here as well," Zevran called jovially to Alistair's back before sinking into a plush armchair that allowed him to observe the three others. "Just the thing to place me in such high spirits."

"You can stop with the false flattery," Alistair replied flatly over his shoulder. "I doubt even the servants buy it."

"False flattery, he says? Tsk, tsk," came the chiding reply, all sense of rank abandoned. "Such hospitality after so long on the road. I am shocked to hear a man of your repute casting such cruel aspersions upon me, and in the presence of these gentlewomen no less. My dear King, how you wound me."

Zevran laughed as Alistair's shoulders visibly tensed, and he glanced over at the table to see how his audience was enjoying his latest verbal round assaulting the Templar-turned-King.

Wynne glared at him, but he was quick to disregard that. She did it often enough.

His smile dropped quickly at Leliana's response:

Lips drawn into a thin line, she shook her head faintly, but emphatically. Her hand wrapped around one of the unfinished arrow shafts and she drew the object once, rapidly, in a horizontal slice just under her chin.

The message was clear: cut it out.

"When _did_ you arrive in Denerim?" Wynne's book snapped closed, the noise drawing the assassin's attention. She set the tome on her lap.

"Dear Wynne, were you desolate without me? Am I finally thawing your icy exterior?"

"Hardly," she huffed.

"I arrived two nights ago, if you must know. There were some matters of business which occupied my initial time. But do not fret, my dear woman, I was not at the tavern like some faithless cad looking to replace you."

Wynne looked daggers at him, refusing to be goaded into his game. "What business?"

"Simply following some leads that have surfaced. Speaking with contacts and the like. All very dull, I assure you."

"Leads? Contacts?" Leliana joined, "Are you speaking of-"

"Yes, Zevran," Alistair turned, folding his arms across his chest and leaning his weight against the window sill. His voice unusually calm in light of the topic the group so cautiously skirted. But his posture betrayed him; he held himself taut, a cord scant moments away from snapping. "Do tell us what's kept you so occupied."

"I, ah," he stuttered, the harsh looks from two of the three causing him a moment's pause. "Well I have a lead that I will be taking me from Denerim in the early morning."

"Where?" Wynne fired coolly.

"West, naturally," Zevran answered with more bravado than he felt. "Were I to travel east, I would fall into the ocean."

"How far west?" She placed her book on the table and folded her arms in a manner similar to Alistair's.

Zevran bit the inside of his cheek. He was toeing a dangerous path. Never before since requesting he investigate the Warden's disappearance had the mage taken to questioning his every move. The time spent carefully concealing his movements from those who would exploit his progress could be quickly unraveled should Wynne continue pulling at this thread.

"Why, to the Coastlands." He hoped she couldn't detect his hesitation.

"So north," Alistair was unimpressed.

"Northwest," Zevran amended.

"Are you going to Highever?" Leliana inquired.

_Of course_ they would pick up on that. "Possibly," he shrugged noncommittally. "I may make a stop there. Though it is likely I will travel to West Hill directly."

Zevran chanced a glance over at Wynne. The woman's eyebrows were drawn low, furrowed in concentration. _Why West Hill?_

"Shall I fetch you some silk ribbons, Leliana?" He then turned to the mage, attempting to distract her with direct conversational chatter. "And dear Wynne, which new saucy Orleasian novella shall I bring back?"

"Save your dirty books for someone who will actually _read_ them," she scoffed. Movement from the corner of her eye revealed that Alistair had resumed his previous pose facing the window.

"Ah, a shame. No books for you then," Zevran clucked his tongue and gathered himself from the armchair. "This has all been great fun. A most enjoyable visit. But, if I am to be on the road by first light, I must take my leave."

"Speak with my steward, and he will have them find you suitable quarters for the night," the figure by the window spoke without moving.

Without missing a beat, Zevran bowed lowly to the King. "You are, as ever, most generous my Liege."

"Oh shut it," came the reply, with the tiniest hint of amusement.

The Antivan made his parting conversations with the two women in the room and then slipped out of the study.

No sooner had the wooden door fell shut than the remaining man turned around.

"Well, I don't trust him."

"You _never_ trusted him," Leliana reminded him, returning to her arrows. "You only keep him around because you know it's what Eli…"

She trailed off, flushing with shame and stuttering an apology.

"It's _fine_," Alistair assured her, though they both knew it _wasn't_ fine. _He_ wasn't fine, though only the three of them were aware of the full extent, they maintained the ruse even amongst themselves. "You may say her name if you wish. I won't break upon hearing it."

"I simply think you are too quick to discount what he says. He's doing this for all of us. For himself too."

Wynne signed quietly, and placed her elbows on the table. Her palm coming to cradle her chin. "I don't trust him either," she decided thoughtfully. "He's hiding something."

"Zevran is _always_ hiding something," Leliana reasoned.

"Something to do with Highever," Wynne continued, working through her thoughts aloud.

Leliana slammed a wooden rod against the table, missing the cloth and causing the other objects to rattle against one another. Alistair jerked at the sudden disruption.

"You couldn't possibly think that he would know something about Elissa or who took her and keep it from us? After everything we've gone through together? No, absolutely not!" Leliana's defiant eyes met Wynne. "You can't possibly think that!"

"I don't know," Wynne answered evenly. "But I want you to follow him once he leaves Denerim."

"What?" the bard was aghast.

"Get one of the servants to watch his room tonight, lest he try to slip out. Take a horse if you must and whatever supplies you need, but follow him. I want to know where he's going. I'd wager my entire library that he's not going to West Hill."

"Wynne, you are being paranoid."

"I think she's right," Alistair added. "This is beyond keeping secrets."

"You two, are positively wretched."

"Then consider that you're doing Zevran a favor," Alistair smirked. "Clearing his good name by verifying his whereabouts."

Leliana shook her head and sighed. She began gathering up her supplies, carefully wrapping them into the gathers of the cloth as she pleated corners of fabric, finally tucking the folded square under her arm. Wynne handed the completed arrows and ash rods to Leliana, one bundle for each hand; an old habit the two developed over many evenings.

"I will do as you ask. But I think you are both wrong."

"I hope we are too," Wynne told her, and then the girl left for the evening.

"Do you really think he has something to do with who took her?" Alistair asked when the two of them remained.

"I don't know," Wynne admitted. "But I do believe he knows something about it. He may not be directly involved, but I'm certain he knows who is."

Alistair nodded, uneasy. "I hope we're ready for what Leliana might find, Wynne."


	6. Chapter 5

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 5**

-o-

Leliana lowered herself down from the horse, the snow crunched underfoot as she landed with a dull thud at the base of the hill. She ran her gloved palm lightly over her companion's broad neck, mentally reminding herself to thank Wynne for insisting on taking the calm mare over the rambunctious stallion she favored.

She had fallen half a day behind Zevran by her last calculation, and was determined to make up the lost time. But, the midwinter snow steadily increased during the morning's stretch of travel, and when Leliana spotted a familiar fork in the road she reluctantly admitted the truth: she had lost Zevran's trail. With a looming blizzard, she was forced to seek shelter.

Wynne would be so disappointed in her. But, it couldn't compare to the frustration Leliana felt towards herself.

She pulled back the thick woolen hood with one hand, allowing herself a moment to push aside her discontent, and take in the grandeur of Soldier's Peak. The bard had not set eyes on the fortress since fighting through the demon-infested ruin a mere lifetime earlier. Since then, what changes the place had undergone!

What were once crumbling steps were now coated with fresh applications of mortar. New stones nestled between the weathered and worn, creating a patchwork of winding cobblestone. Overgrown walks had been cleared and brambles cut back. Previously cracked windows had been fitted with new glazing that winked sparkled like diamonds in the dim rays of sunlight the slipped through the cracks of clouds and the curtain of snow. Perhaps this was but a small glimpse into the majesty that must have been.

How could Amaranthine even hope to equal what this once was?

The horse wined impatiently. Her snout nudged against Leliana's back indicating that it was time to be brought to the stables rather than remain in the cold. She laughed at the horse's antics and led the mare up the steep incline to the shelter from the storm.

-o-

"What in all of Thedas are you doing _here_?"

It was the first time anyone had broken the silence in the Warden's room. Since dragging the Cousland girl from the Fade, the three mages had developed an unwritten rule of decorum: no one spoke in that room.

Jowan had just broken that honored vow.

His two companions stood beside him, staring in quiet surprise at the intruder. But the uninvited party looked past them, gaping in open-mouthed wonder at the tiny figure swamped in blankets on the cot.

Zevran walked swiftly to Elissa's side, kneeling to bring his face level with hers.

He could scarcely believe it. She looked so peaceful, as if sleeping. She _was_ sleeping; that much was evident by her breathing. He sought her hand beneath the layers of quilts, gently drawing her palm between his own. _Warm_. Her hand was warm, though the last time her hands had been the bitter cold of death. His throat felt thick and his vision blurred.

He gulped, and blinked to clear his eyes, lest the others see. So much he wanted to say to her, if only she would wake. But it could wait. She was alive, and she would recover. He returned her hand to rest by her side, then rose and faced the mages.

Jowan jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the group should withdraw to the small foyer.

Zevran nodded and they filed into the next room.

Immediately after closing the door to the Warden's room, Jowan whirled to face the Antivan.

"Why are you _here_? We're not to leave for Highever for several days."

"There has been an unexpected development," Zevran said coolly, widening his stance as he prepared for battle, even simply a battle of words.

Avernus scoffed and left the room, retreating into his laboratory. The heavy wood door clamored shut in his wake. Ciara remained, situating herself by Jowan's side. Zevran wondered if they were consciously choosing to block the path back to the Warden's room, or if she simply moved to place herself in the conversation…

"What kind of development?" she fired.

Or perhaps an _interrogation_ instead.

"I am being followed," Zevran began. "Though I--"

"So you immediately thought to come here?" Jowan stammered out, throwing his hands over his head.

"Were you to let me finish, you would know that I have lost her for the time in the snowfall, but she is surely headed to Highever. Meeting there is no longer possible."

"So what now?" Ciara cast a nervous glance back to the Warden's door.

-o-

"Well I certainly wasn't expecting to see you here."

Leliana grinned a wide greeting at the merchant as he crossed the courtyard to meet her.

"How fortunate I am that I was so near the Peak once the snow picked up. I was hoping I might impose upon you until the storm passes."

"No imposition at all," Levi Dryden insisted, taking the horse's reins from Leliana as they ambled to the stables. "Your elf friend arrived this morning. I take it you were separated in the weather?"

Leliana halted abruptly, which Levi failed to notice until he had lead the horse three paces ahead. Turning back, he stared askance at the woman.

"You mean Zevran?" Surely he could not mean…

"I suppose. If that be the name of the same elf you traveled with last year. I apologize, I'm rotten with names."

Leliana frowned, confused. Zevran here?

"He's been here before in weeks past," Levi offered as they began walking again. "He goes up to see Avernus and the other two."

"Other two?" her eyebrows furrowed. Since when did the ancient hermit of an apostate keep company?

"The other two mages that he brought with him the first time he returned. A man and woman. The man's left Soldier's Peak a time or two, but the woman barely leaves the tower. I'm not sure what they're up to, but I'm certain I wouldn't want to know."

"Forgive me, but do you mean Zevran is up there, right now?"

Levi nodded.

"I-- excuse me, please, but I must speak with him," she thanked him for seeing her horse to the stable and broke into a sprint in the direction of the tower.

-o-

"So it is settled. I will leave here and travel onto Highever," Zevran announced. "I will leave signs enough for my stalker to regain my trail, and then continue West Hill. Once she has lost interest in me, I will be free to join you after a week's delay in Highever. Then we will proceed as planned."

"I don't like it," Ciara folded her arms. "If this person trails you to West Hill, what's to stop them from following you back to Highever?"

"I assure you, it will be infinitely easier to lose them in a crowded town. But should I be unsuccessful, then I will return to Denerim from West Hill. Perhaps my next journey will be more fruitful and we can meet in Highever in a month's time."

"A month?" Jowan gaped. "She will surely be awake by then. We cannot move her once she wakes."

"Perhaps Avernus could mix something to sedate her," Ciara offered.

"I don't like this," Jowan whined anxiously.

"Then think of something else. There are hardly a wealth of options at this juncture," the woman snapped.

Jowan opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden gust of wind interrupted, howling outside the tower.

The exterior door flew open, the figure of a hooded woman silhouetted in the frame.

-o-

Leliana entered the small foyer; dustings of snow sprinkled her cloak.

"Zevran," she breathed, her eyes settling on her friend, "you lied to me."

"I apologize for the deceit, my dear. Now if you would please rejoin the Drydens downstairs, I would be happy to accompany you and discuss it at length."

"What are you doing here?" her voice was tense, a taut wire about to snap.

She glanced at the pair next to Zevran.

"You!" she shouted, staring at Jowan. "And--" she gasped as she recognized the woman.

"What's the commotion?" three sets of eyes followed the muffled voice to the door. The latch turned.

"Wonderful," Avernus observed dryly, standing at the threshold from the laboratory. "More visitors. Oh I do so love to entertain."

Leliana fumed, "Zevran, what are you playing at?"

Her friend faced her, crossing his arms, defiance etched across his features. His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened.

Wynne was right, she realized with a devastating shock. Her friend was hiding something damning and consorting with unrepentant blood mages. Leliana knew she should likely begin fearing for her safety, but anger crowded out all competing sentiments. She had vouched for him, defended his integrity, all to learn he was keeping hidden something dreadful.

A strained moan echoed from the side room. Ciara and Jowan's eyes met nervously as they each took a step backwards, closing ranks to guard the door.

"Get out of my way," Leliana seethed, tearing off her cloak and casting it aside. She pushed her way between the pair and threw open the door.

But she halted just inside the next room. A strangled sob escaped her and she covered her mouth with her hands.

"Elissa," she whispered, regaining her momentum to her friend's side as the Warden groaned wearily, shifting beneath the covers.

Leliana leaned forward, watching in awe as Elissa flirted with consciousness. The light from the fire danced across her skin and Leliana could see the fire reflected back on faint slits of eyes.

"Lel?" Elissa croaked faintly.

"I am here," she breathed. Her hands framed Elissa's face, combing back stray locks of hair as a mother would with an ill child. "I am here."

Elissa sighed before slipping back into unconsciousness. Leliana continued to watch as the dying fire played upon the Warden's face.

How long Leliana sat by her side, she couldn't say. Her heart ached and she began to feel terror she had not known since the Blight. And though utterly ashamed, she could admit it: joy. Her dearest friend had returned to her. One part of her wanted to damn the consequences, her friend had been restored. Another part of her wondered, and worried. At what cost had this happened? What deal with a demon, or three, had Zevran made?

When she finally rejoined the troupe in the laboratory, the afternoon blizzard raging outside had died to a peaceful night's snowfall.

"What have you done?" she spat the accusation at Zevran.

He remained silent, impenitent, and unmoved. He would do it all again, she knew. Her concern mounted. Was Elissa an anomaly, or could anyone be brought back? And at what stakes? Could these mages, could Elissa even, shred the Veil forever?

"We have overcome Death itself," Avernus answered, pride dripping from each word.

"This--" Leliana fumbled, nausea building, "this is an offense against the Maker."

"Is that what you think it is, hmm?" Avernus chuckled. "Well then, by all means, dispatch this abomination with haste. Would you prefer a dagger or a tonic?"

"You're despicable," she shot. Then turning to Zevran, "We must tell Wynne, she will know what must be done."

"Absolutely not," Zevran broke his silence and moved, grabbed her by the shoulders. He forced Leliana to face him. "You will do nothing of the sort. You will say _nothing_. You are in this now."

She struggled, but his hold would not loosen. "Wynne must know. I cannot help you with this!"

"You will," Zevran insisted. "Because you _know_. And whatever happens to us will also happen to you. Like it or not, Leliana, you are now just as much a part of this."

-o-

_A/N: I will be away from home and a reliable internet connection for the next two weekends. Regular postings of chapters will resume the first weekend of May. I thank you for your patience with real life preempting the posting schedule, and, as always, thanks for reading!_


	7. Chapter 6

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 6**

-o-

"You have been very quiet as of late," Wynne observed.

Leliana shrugged. Her eyes dropped to the gravel path, a thin pretense of diverting her eyes from the bright sun overhead. She knew her friend suspected concealment, but was grateful that the mage made no further comment.

A familiar, tense silence fell upon them as they ambled through the palace's private gardens. Several hundred paces ahead of them, Alistair and Eamon were absorbed in lengthy discussions revolving around… Leliana couldn't be certain. Based on the occasional stray word that floated away on the wind, she assumed the state of the Bannon was their current focus. Alistair's adopted mabari trotted dutifully alongside, offering the odd bark as his contribution to the conversation.

The contrast between a typical turn about the park and the present situation struck her greatly.

Well-tended lawns, even topiaries, vibrant flowers, and sculpted fountains; all tucked away in the hidden oasis. The grounds were expertly planned to create the sensation of an Orleasian estate's expansive ornamental gardens within the cramped confines of Denerim's palace. The cacophony of the bustling city were imperceptible past the large stone walls encasing the retreat. Truly, Leliana felt most at home in this remnant of the Orlesian Occupation than anywhere else in Ferelden. By contrast, Alistair always seemed ill at ease amongst the manicured landscape. 'Too unnatural,' he had once commented when he was unable to locate a single weed stubbornly protruding from the beds.

But what a reversal! On this day, the King seemed almost comfortable strolling down the wide path, while she found herself increasingly out of place.

Leliana had felt pained since daybreak, the ache in her stomach only increasing as the minutes crawled by. She longed to confess to Wynne, to reveal all and bear the woman's disappointment simply to relieve herself of the all-consuming agony of waiting.

She swallowed a dry lump in her throat, willing herself to be calm. Guilt was difficult to overcome, and she had much to worry on. It wasn't even midday, how was she ever to survive the wait? What day was it? She couldn't be sure as they all blurred together in a dull stream of minutes and hours.

The waiting would assuredly drive her mad!

The King and the arl's conversation drew to a close, as evidenced by Alistair praising the dog's patience and promised him a reward. The mabari let out a yip, breaking into a run of exultation and he raced around the gardens. As the hound made his second pass by the stone wall he skidded to an abrupt stop, paws digging into the gravel path. He moved to stand directly before the wall, sniffing along the base.

"Whatever is your mabari up to?" Eamon mused. Alistair merely shrugged his shoulders as they continued on towards the palace.

The dog began to scratch the stone blocks.

"Maybe he's chased a bird or something," Alistair offered, looking back towards the mabari as they continued down the lane.

Then, loud barking at the wall-- short, frantic cries that increased in frequency to a long, unending plea. Truth was that there was nothing of interest immediately on the other side of the wall. A wide stretch of yard divided the garden wall from the outer wall surrounding the palace. But beyond that, the expanse of the city...

Eamon and Alistair looked to the other for answers; but Leliana, who remained silent, was the only member of the party who could know what the mabari was seeking.

Or rather _whom_…

At last the waiting had ended.

Suddenly, having grown tired of the humans around him refusing to acknowledge his discovery, the dog turned, issued a single commanding bark at Alistair, and darted towards the palace.

The King watched in confusion as the mabari charged towards the stairs. A trail of dust and bits of rock the animal had kicked up in the mad dash served as a visible marker to progress. Once he began up the stairs leading to the terrace, Alistair began to jog after him.

If there had been any hope that attention would placate the mabari, it was lost quickly. As soon as he was aware Alistair was following, the hound's speed increased. From the terrace, he charged towards the door, the attendants present scurrying out of the way.

Alistair's pace increased. Leliana breathed a sigh of relief. _Finally!_ She grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and rushed after the two, nearly knocking over Eamon herself as she raced to catch them.

The mabari's progress had halted at the exterior door. For all his skill, he had not yet learned to secrets to opening the heavy door. Frustrated at another obstacle, he began scratching, jumping, eventually growling-- first at the door, and then at the nearby servants.

"Let him in!" Alistair shouted, panting his way up the stairs. "He has the run of this place as it is."

Eamon grumbled loudly about entertaining the animal's whims as he and Wynne continued briskly towards them. The mage wisely held her tongue. Clearly the mabari's behavior was more than just a passing fancy.

The door groaned wide. The leader darted through, King and bard hot on his heels.

At first there was darkness. The stark contrast from sunlight to the dim interior blinded them into darkness. But the mabari refused to stop for anything, even lack of sight. Guided by something far more instinctual, the momentary loss of vision seemed to heighten other senses and hurry his pace. Through the palace they sped, careening through corridors and barreling down galleries, their pace ever increasing, ignoring the curious stares from guards, servants, and the occasional noble as they went.

Leliana's chest began to ache, her throat turning dry and cold from shallow breaths. At last she was granted a brief respite as they neared the main entrance to the palace.

As the large paneled door was pushed wide, two guards assumed their posts behind the party. One thing for the King to tear through the palace, but it was an entirely separate matter for him to travel through the capital unarmed and unescorted. Alistair rolled his eyes, but refrained from comment. He bounced on the balls of his feet impatiently; this mystery of the mabari's sudden quest proved the most interesting, exciting thing to happen to him since…

He choked down the thought. Best not to think on that.

Then sunlight flooded the hall, everyone squinted, waiting; save for the dog who tore into the courtyard.

Again the chase resumed. Across the yard, down the first set of steps, through the main gate, ignore the wide-eyed stares, down the second flight, and into the Palace District.

The hound rushed away, weaving through the groups of citizens, disappearing from sight. Alistair followed blindly, ignorant of where the dog could be, where he would go.

Alistair halted abruptly. A paralyzing fear seized him: he had just lost the only thing left he had of _her_.

Then he was off again, continuing in the last direction he knew. Fortunately the throngs of people in the District didn't recognize him out of armor. For the moment he was no one of particular importance, a well-dressed man with two guards and a woman trailing him.

Still no sign of the dog. He bit his lip to stop bitter tears from collecting in his eyes. Suddenly he heard a short, pleased bark, and stumbled towards the sound. He turned down a small alley backing up to the outer palace wall, and froze. Leliana collided into him, the guards nearly following suit.

The mabari had found something… someone. A figure huddled in a mass of dark robes, clearly unconscious, or perhaps dead, and crumpled in a heap at the wall. The dog bounded around the figure, yipping and grinning just like he would before. Alistair moved slowly towards the animal and his find when the dog launched himself at the figure, licking the stranger's face and hands as though reuniting with a long lost friend.

The dog's movements jostled the hood, revealing a flash of a familiar color of hair. Alistair's breath caught. _Impossible._

Still, he found himself striding towards the scene, pace increasing, and heart in his throat. There was no possible way…

The mabari moved to one side, his stump of a tail wagging frantically. Alistair knelt down, moving to view the person. He pushed the hood completely back, and his entire world changed.

Elissa...

Tears spilt from his eyes. She looked perfect. Restored. Peaceful. Nothing at all as she had when the entire country mourned for her.

Alistair gently combed his fingers through her hair. At least he would finally be able to give her peace… to honor her and put her soul to rest. His right hand moved to cup her cheek.

Warm.

He choked, all the air escaping him in a rush. His left hand mirrored the other, framing her face. He wasn't imaging at all! Not just restored… alive. The subtle shift of her body with the rise and fall of her chest confirmed it.

"Maker's breath," Eamon gasped as he and Wynne arrived, taking in the scene before them.

The arl moved to the guards, instructing the younger to fetch the steward. While all others looked on at the Warden, Eamon began the mental list of necessary actions: the staff needed to prepare a room with all necessary haste and discretion; court cancelled, or the hours drastically reduced for the near future; patrols increased… His next few days took shape before him without ceremony or announcement. It must be done, and so it would be.

Eamon could not help but feel so small degree of relief. Already, he could see a faint glimmer in Alistair's eyes. A spark that had been conspicuously absent since the Siege.

The King pulled the Warden to him, drawing her into his lap and cradling her form against his. The straps of a small leather satchel had been loosely looped around one hand. The contents rattled as Elissa was shifted. Alistair reached town, gently removing the object and holding it out towards Wynne. Wordlessly she took the bag, pulling out one of the small vials.

The mage inspected a vial, eyes darting up to meet Leliana's. Though the bard met her gaze briefly, her eyes were uneasy.

Alistair, meanwhile had drawn Elissa into his arms, looping his arms under her knees and back. As he rose, the guards moved to assist him, but he shook his head, insistent that no one else would have the privilege of carrying her-- her thin, fragile, and yet _alive_ body.

_Alive._

The group moved to return to the palace. The mabari, clearly elated at the outcome of his quest attempted to lead, but quickly decided he found jumping in wide circles around Alistair and Elissa more rewarding. Wynne walked beside Alistair, Eamon and the guards following.

"How can this be?" Alistair began to ask Wynne before cutting off his own line of questioning. "You know what? Never mind. I don't care how."

Wynne wanted to voice her unease, the growing suspicion that something terrible had occurred to bring them the gift of returning the Warden. But Alistair's face, typically etched with grief, was awash with calm. He was concerned; Elissa's condition was unknown, and, while clearly alive what might happen upon her awakening was yet a mystery.

But Wynne's fears remained unspoken. She would not taint this moment by immediately adding more worry. She would allow him this, this one bright afternoon where miracles could happen just because one was good, and sacrifices not need be paid in blood.

Leliana lingered behind; hoping none of the others noticed the two cloaked figures escaping from the opposite end of the alley.

The wait had ended, but she could sense something more calamitous was about to begin.

-o-

_A/N: The Eamon paragraph was meant to show that this peripheral character (in this story at least), is one of the most essential to the world and Alistair's rule first starting out. I am not of the opinion that he is power hungry, manipulative, or wanting to set himself up as the puppet-master. While I wish he was more involved in this story, it would not be suitable. In a nutshell: I like him, and feel like he often gets a maligned._

_Thanks for your patience during the second part of April. And thank you for reading!_


	8. Chapter 7

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 7**

-o-

Alistair paced the length of the small sitting room, his journey taking him from the fireplace to the opposite end where door into the bedchambers remained closed. From their chairs, Leliana and Eamon watched each successive lap.

"You really should sit down," Leliana offered on his next pass.

"I can't sit down," his words were clipped, distracted; his voice a layer of calm thinly containing anxious energy.

Another lap.

"They've been in their hours."

"It's not been but one," Eamon muttered.

The door opened slightly, prompting Alistair to change course, but it slid closed again quickly; the ejected mabari left whining and scraping at the barrier.

"Some war dog you are," the King chastised. "Letting yourself be shooed away by an old woman like some common lapdog."

The hound whimpered a response, and sat guard before the door.

Alistair made two more turns, and then paused before the pair.

"I didn't just imagine that, did I?" his eyes darted from Eamon to Leliana. "You saw her too, right?"

"Yes, Alistair," Eamon nodded patiently. "Now, please have a seat and calm yourself."

The King's walking resumed.

"You're insane, Eamon," he laughed. "How could I possibly be calm right now? What's taking so long in there?"

The entrance off the corridor swung open.

"I came as soon as I heard," Zevran announced upon entering the room.

"Heard?" Eamon gaped, "How in the Maker's name could you have heard?"

"I-- I sent word," Leliana stammered after a strained pause.

"Yes, _exactly_. Leliana sent a servant to fetch me," Zevran added.

Eamon's eyes flicked between the two of them. His mouth twitched with distain, but he kept his suspicions to himself. Instead he rose from his chair.

"I believe I should make arrangements to reduce the hours for court," the arl answered Alistair's confused expression.

"Yes, of course," Alistair responded, before realization dawned with a start. "Eamon, Fergus Cousland must be informed."

Zevran clucked his tongue. "A fine plan, indeed. I hope you will grant me the privilege of reading such a missive before it is dispatched. Whatever shall you tell him?"

Alistair shrugged.

"'To the most esteemed Teyrn of Highever,'" Zevran began, his voice taking on a false dignified air. "'It gives us great pleasure to inform you that your sister is, in fact, not as dead as we previously believed. As it turns out, she was only mostly dead, but rest assured, she is quite recovered now.'"

Leliana watched with silent horror at Zevran's caviler attitude. Never before had he spoken so blatantly regarding Elissa's state following the Siege of Denerim. But to her surprise, Alistair laughed at the assassin's antics, just as he might have before.

The nightmare was ending.

"I suppose you're right at that," Alistair agreed, then turned to the arl. "Draft up something appropriately vague enough to lure him to town."

With a bow, Eamon left.

Zevran moved to the vacated chair. "Why are we relegated out here?" he asked Alistair pointedly. "Couldn't you simply order us to be allowed in?"

"I don't think that would work on Wynne," he answered with a dismissive snort, sinking into one of the two empty chairs facing the rouges. His feet shuffled, knees bouncing up and down fitfully.

"Are you alright?" Leliana asked softly.

"I am, truly," the King assured her. "I can scarce believe this after all that's happened. I'm simply--" he paused, allowing the grin to stretch wide as he leaned back against the chair. "Elissa's here, and she's alive. Now if only I could do something other than wait."

Leliana nodded. She had felt much the same for far longer than she could admit.

"But yes, I am alright. I'm better than alright, I'm… relieved."

Alistair tilted his head back, looking at the rows of wooden beams spanning the ceiling. She was alive, and she would wake soon. The daily hell of the past weeks would be over. The grin shifted into a wistful smile. He had something in his lockbox he had been wanting to give her, but never thought he would have the occasion...

-o-

The door to the bedchamber opened slowly. The mabari stationed near the threshold seized upon the opportunity, quickly darting around Wynne. The mage's eyes settled on Zevran and the trio rose from their chairs.

"Good, you're here," she said without preamble, lacking Alistair's surprise at the elf's sudden arrival.

Leliana moved silently into the next room, but when Alistair attempted to follow, Wynne halted him with a raised palm. _Wait_. With a frown, he complied.

She held a bottle out towards Zevran. "Look at this," she directed, placing the object in his hands.

Zevran held the potion at the level of his eyes. The potion was a deep red. Slapped across the face, a paper label in an unfamiliar hand instructed "one dosage applied daily."

"I believe it's some type of restorative, but smells unlike anything I'm familiar with." As she spoke the Antivan uncorked the bottle, drawing the brim to his nose. He covered the opening with his thumb and tilted it, coating the pad with a thin sheen of the concoction. Then he drew the finger to his lips.

Salty. Bitter. With just an underlying hint of copper.

"It's true, it smells vile, and it tastes only slightly better. But it's not poison. It should be fine."

The mage nodded. "Then I should take this to her."

"Not today," Zevran pulled his hands back from her outstretched fingers. Shoving the cork forcefully into place. "The potion says once daily, and she's already had today's."

Wynne's eyebrows rose.

"It's late afternoon, surely she already would have received it prior to being dropped at your doorstep," he hastened to add, then retreated hastily to join Leliana, feeling Wynne's accusing eyes hot on his back.

"Make it quick," Alistair pleaded once they were the two left in the room.

"I wanted to make sure you are you alright."

"What a question, Wynne," he snorted. "I'd be better if you'd let me in there."

"She was dead, you know," Wynne reminded him quietly.

"Maker's breath, I know! Must everyone insist on reminding me?"

"I just want you to be prepared. There's no telling what she might wake up as, or what might have happened."

His eyes hardened and jaw clenched. "What are you saying?"

"'As there is but one world, one life, one death…'"

"You are _not_ reciting the Chant to me," Alistair growled.

"'All things are finite.' Remember that, please."

"This? From _you_?" he gaped. "You are unbelievable!"

"Alistair--"

"We are _not_ having this conversation right now," he declared, marching to the bedchamber, throwing open the door.

-o-

Leliana watched Elissa's slow and steady inhale and exhale with rapt curiosity. Such a simple thing: breathing. She hardly gave it a thought. But her amazement continued, as fresh and present as when she stumbled into the tower at Soldier's Peak.

Her eyes shifted, looking over Elissa's reclined form to her accomplice. Or was she his...?

"Zevran?" she tested the waters gently.

"Shhh!" he hissed as Alistair barreled into the room.

Leliana rose, surrendering her seat to Alistair. As she stood she noticed Wynne in the doorframe. The mage jerked her head towards the sitting room. The bard nodded and dutifully followed.

"You wanted to see me?" Leliana asked hesitantly once the pair had returned to the sitting room.

"What happened in West Hill?" Wynne asked pointedly.

"Nothing," she answered immediately. Too quickly she thought, silently chastising herself.

The mage again quirked an eyebrow. Leliana discovered long ago that she found the habit as unnerving as unnerving as it was effective.

"I will find out, Leliana," Wynne vowed. "It's simply a matter of time."

Leliana shook her head. "There's nothing to tell, I promise you."

"We shall see."

-o-

_A/N: Next chapter Elissa wakes. We're almost halfway through the story now. Elissa's been returned, now she will be trying to solve what happened to her and what ramifications will result. Thanks for reading!_


	9. Chapter 8

_A/N: For all intents and purposes of this story, Alistair and Elissa did not "break up" after the Landsmeet. But they also never discussed what would become of their relationship once he became King._

-o-

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 8**

-o-

Elissa found herself beneath the gnarled tree, gazing into the blanketed sky. Slowly the clouds drifted down from the expanse above, enveloping her in a warm haze. She felt dizzy, body spinning wildly yet remaining still.

The clouds dissolved.

Light.

-o-

A faint rustle from the bed caught Alistair's attention. He jerked his head to the offending sound, hoping to find a set of eyes staring back into his. But Elissa remained in the same still position as the previous two days. He failed to keep the disappointed sigh from echoing through the bedchamber.

A low groan rumbled in response.

In an instant he was up from his chair, moving to sit on the bed. His fingers combed through her hair -- so much longer than he remembered.

She attempted to roll away from him. Alistair chuckled lightly, happy to resume the old pattern of trying to rouse Elissa from sleep.

At length, her eyes opened, glassy and unfocused.

Her voice was weak from disuse, and he strained to hear her "good morning," rasped, with a lopsided grin, still blinking to chase away the lingering exhaustion.

"Good morning, my love." It mattered not that it was an hour from supper.

He knew he should fetch Wynne. Elissa needed to be examined, questioned to ensure no permanent damage had been done. The hundred logical arguments fled as she smiled lazily up at him.

And suddenly Alistair was back in a distant camp, leaning over Elissa as the morning sun filtered into the tent. No. He would not be denied these quiet moments in the dawn, not after so long spent in the night.

"How do you feel?" he asked softly.

"I feel as though I slept a full month," she withdrew her arms from beneath the heavy covers, interlacing her fingers together as she stretched them above her head.

"Something like that," he blinked rapidly at the unbidden thought of what might have been-- what almost was…

His arms wound themselves around her frame as he assisted her to sit upright; he remained entangled with her once she settled against the pillows. Alistair rested his forehead against her temple, watching her lashes flutter closed. He smiled, burying his nose in her hair, breathing in the scent of oil and sweat, lyrium and blood, smoke and... _Elissa_.

"I've _missed_ you," he whispered into the matted locks.

She drew breath to reply when a series of dry coughs burst forth. Alistair reluctantly withdrew and busied himself with the pitcher and goblet on a nearby table.

He felt her eyes on his back and wondered how the scene might appear to Elissa: to wake after what she must assume to be just a brief time, only to have a bumbling love struck fool hovering over her. They had never even discussed what would become of _them_ after the Blight.

Elissa took the goblet with both hands, smiling in thanks as she brought the rim to her parched lips and drank deeply. Fingers brushed as he reached to take the empty vessel from her. Alistair was unsure if he imagined the jolt or if she felt it too. The beating of wings in his stomach only grew once the cup was set aside. How could something so comforting and familiar seem so terrifyingly new all at once?

Eyes met, hers brightening as a coy grin melted across her lips. The golden weight in his pocket seemed heavier with each breath. _ Too soon_, he reminded himself. The country was no longer in jeopardy and they were safe. _She_ was _safe_. And he had all the time in the world.

Twenty-nine years worth, at least.

"What is the last thing you remember?" he asked gently.

Elissa frowned, broken shards of memories scattering across her mind as she vainly tried to shuffle them into some semblance of order. She leaned back against the thick pillow, closing her eyes as if blocking out the images before her would make those in her mind all the clearer.

"Fort Drakon," she began, the fog swirling thickly through her mind. "Fire and then… a tree."

Her eyes opened to meet Alistair's amused expression.

"A tree?" he smirked, gesturing out the window. Several ornamental topiaries could be seen from her bed.

"Stop it!" she commanded, her amused tone and smile betraying her words. He issued half-hearted apologies between teasing glances and she laughed in response, mindless of either the lingering aching in her ribs or the scratching of her throat.

"What else?" he prompted.

"Fog and smoke and… Leliana?" her voice trailed off into uncertainty.

The light grin fell abruptly and Alistair struggled to school his expression to a comfortable curiosity. "Leliana?" he repeated. But she wasn't with them at the tower...

"I realize that makes little sense," Elissa fumbled, anticipating his questions. "Perhaps I woke a bit when she and Wynne were caring for me. I remember Leliana being there, but I don't remember anyone else."

She waved a dismissive hand. "And now you'll tease me mercilessly for excluding you from my fever-induced memories."

Alistair reached out, catching her hand in his and twining their fingers. Her smile dimmed and Alistair searched her eyes. Elissa stared at their hands before meeting his gaze.

"I missed your coronation, didn't I?" she asked, eyes drifting back to the insignia ring.

"I'm so glad you're alright," he deflected.

"Alistair," she whispered, "how long?"

He glanced away, his eyes tracing the contours of the folds of bedding, the pattern of the stones on the floor, anything to buy time, anything to soften the blow... How does one break such news?

"Six weeks," he answered finally.

Her eyes fluttered closed and he heard her ragged inhale. _Too much_, he chastised himself.

"Six weeks," she repeated, trying to make sense of her recovery time. But the nights leading up to the Battle of Denerim began crystallizing in her mind, a conversation with a senior Grey Warden springing forth.

"Alistair," Elissa began in a small, faint voice. "I was dead, wasn't I?"

He sighed, one hand fisting and covering his mouth, bracing himself for the most difficult of conversations yet as his other hand tightened in hers.

-o-

"You should have sent for me immediately," Wynne hissed. Her book tumbled across the floorboards of the sitting room as she bolted from the chair. Leliana moved to rescue the tome from the planks while Wynne began searching for her basket of herbs and poultices.

"Being left in my company is hardly the crisis you feared," Alistair brushed aside her complaints.

"That is debatable," Zevran smirked from his chair.

"Elissa is fine-- far better than I would be after learning I had been dead for six weeks," Alistair insisted.

"So you told her," Wynne stated with a chastising cluck of her tongue. "Alistair, it's too soon to be dropping such a thing on her."

"On the contrary," Alistair retorted with crossed arms, "she was quite insistent on learning all the particulars. And _she_ knew she was dead, Wynne. Elissa mostly just wanted confirmation."

The mage shook her head. "Enough of this," she dismissed, "I must go check on her."

Alistair reached out to cautiously touch her at the crook of her arm. The unexpectedly gentle gesture had the desired effect, halting Wynne from rushing out of the room. She looked down at his hand upon her arm, equal parts surprise and curiosity.

Since Elissa's return the pair had found themselves increasingly at odds with one another as the King chose to ignore that she had died. His advisor found herself wanting to proceed cautiously. Wynne suspected blood magic, she had told Alistair this before, but he was increasingly hostile towards discussing such a thing. The growing distance between Wynne and the man she viewed almost as a son had been painful in the past days.

"There's a matter that must be discussed first," Alistair said, dropping his hand.

He turned to Leliana. "Elissa wishes to thank you for caring for her."

The bard's eyes went wide.

"She remembers waking and finding you there watching over her," the King elaborated.

Wynne's face went white, jaw clenching as the full extent of her friends deception was becoming clear. "Leliana," the mage's voice was strained and even, "is this true?"

Leliana looked helpless at Zevran.

"I'm afraid Leliana was simply doing a favor for me," the Antivan cut in. "You see, I had learned that Elissa was being held, and as such I was off to West Hill. Unfortunately my friends here at the palace did not trust my motivations, and as such I found myself being trailed by Leliana. As it was, the entire situation worked out extraordinarily well. For though my knowledge of poisons is most extensive, if not for Leliana, and what she had learned from you, dear Wynne, I would have been and quite the loss once I found Elissa."

Alistair and Wynne stared at the two in surprise, the corners of Wynne's eyes crinkling with pride.

"So, you really went to West Hill?"

"My dear King," Zevran laughed, "I will forgive your suspicion. I had heard she was being held there, and once I learned her condition, it was all I could do to get her out of there."

"And then you arranged for her to be found near the palace once she could be moved," Wynne concluded. "But why all the secrecy?"

It was Leliana who answered, lying with a disturbing amount of ease. "We simply didn't want to raise your hopes prematurely," she told Alistair.

The King nodded, looping and arm around Zevran and Leliana's shoulders. "Thank you both, so very much. You have given me back my life."

Zevran smiled easily, but amidst the joy brought by the simple story, no one noticed Leliana's tight, uncertain smile. She knew even in the ballads, that no story achieved its happy ending quite so simply.

-o-

_A/N: Apologies for the week's lapse in posting. I spent the majority of the previous week and weekend with a fever in excess of 101 degrees Fahrenheit. While a computer is hardly heavy machinery, it seemed unwise to post anything when I couldn't string three keys together into a word-- who knows what I might have accidentally uploaded! Anyway, apologies once again, the skip was not intentional._


	10. Chapter 9

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 9**

-o-

It was the fluttering of pages that woke her, the soft whisper of shuffled parchment that roused Elissa from sleep.

Daylight flooded her room, but rarely did light alone draw her from dreams. Her sleeping habits had been altered, dreadfully so in her opinion. While she once rose easily at dawn, the past several days had her waking in the late morning. Wynne had promised that she should need progressively less sleep as her body recovered.

_Being dead was no small feat._ Elissa smirked at the notion.

She stretched, lazily extending her feet until they met a barrier. Her foot tapped against the mass as she lifted her head. Her mabari's eyes met hers before the hound yawned and dropped his head back against his paws, ever the silent guardian. Her head dropped back to the pillow, blinking the last remnants of sleep away to the sound of rustling paper.

Once more fully alert, she turned her head towards the source of the disturbance, her grin breaking into a smile at the sight. A small writing desk and chair had been moved into the room, situated awkwardly near the windows and positioned to face her bed. Spilling from the stacks lining the desk, piles of scrolls and books littered the surrounding floor. And amidst the clutter, Alistair sat wearing a most defeated expression.

Elissa stifled a laugh, rolling onto her side to afford herself a better view. But the bed groaned in protest of the movement, and Alistair's head shot up in response.

"A little light reading?" she teased, looking pointedly at the particularly large tome he had been leafing through. His ears turned red and he amended his forlorn look. She laughed in response, enjoying that she could still manage to cause him to blush.

"You can't imagine how many current laws there are on tribute and taxes," he explained, a hint of defensiveness lingered as he closed the book with a loud thud.

"Fortunately no, I can't," her eyes danced as she watched him move from behind the desk to sit on the edge of the mattress. She felt the bed shift once more and saw her hound trot off to nap in the pool of sunlight cast through the window. Elissa watched her displaced mabari resettle, then looked back to Alistair and quirked an eyebrow.

"Oh ho," he slipped his hand in hers," amusement at my expense, is it?"

She grinned. "My lips are sealed."

Alistair then leaned towards her, inclining his head to rest his forehead against yours. "I should be blaming all this on you, you know," he whispered in a mock conspiratorial tone. "And I will forever be reminding you that this whole King-thing is entirely your fault."

She felt the smile across her face stretch even farther, but refused to dwell on the fluttering sensation that rose inside her at the word. _Forever_. Such a simple word, really, but one that when passing from his lips could mean so much. No matter what happened: forever. Wings beat against her stomach at the thought. For the first time, since a distant memory of a burning castle and months of death; for the first time she felt utterly, blissfully happy.

"High crimes against the crown, then?" she smirked, her nose brushing against his; humor to mask nervous anticipation.

"Something like that," he drew back slightly to see her more clearly. His face grew serious, becoming etched in concentration as he continued to stare at her. She felt her own grin slipping from her face as she watched his gaze fall on her lips and his eyes grow dark.

He moved, or maybe it was she. Perhaps they met somewhere in between; Elissa couldn't be certain. Lips met, softly, tentatively, but with growing confidence. Alistair's fingers remained twined with hers as his free hand twisted through her hair. Her lips parted, drawing him deeper, pulling him closer. How was it possible to miss something you didn't even realize was absent?

Her eyes shot open rapidly at the memory, but she schooled her movements so that Alistair would not be alarmed. Elissa forced her lids shut, focusing on the sensations of Alistair's hand combing through her hair, his tongue snaking with hers, his body leaning over to cover hers. In her mind's eye, the broken dream grew more defined: the barren ground; the rotted, twisted tree; Elissa on a hill, searching for Alistair through the fog...

She felt his lips skimming down her throat and gasped, and she felt his teeth against her skin as he smiled at the encouragement. Elissa wouldn't interrupt to tell him what she had realized: the vision wasn't the vestige a dream. It was a memory.

-o-

It was early morning; the sun still hung low in the sky. Not quite dawn, but an improvement all the same.

"Up early, I see," Alistair noted upon entering Elissa's room, rolling his eyes at her satisfied smile before taking in her appearance.

Her face was flushed from the exertion of sitting up in bed and donning a thick dressing gown. She sat at the foot of the bed, legs dangling over the side.

"I thought I might walk about for a bit," she answered, knotting the damask robe with a woven cord.

Alistair cocked his head to one side. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Alistair," she began patiently, "I have been confined to this bed for near a week. Today I make my grand escape. You can help, or you can watch."

"And you're sure this is a good idea?" he continued. "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but you aren't exactly in peak physical condition."

She scowled. "Just once around the room. You can help - or hover - if it would make you feel better."

He blinked repeatedly, confusion apparent. Then she crossed his arms and fixed him with a pointed look. "And here I was offering up the perfect excuse to hold me near."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Clever minx."

"The cleverest." She held out both hands in front of her, eyes wide and plaintive like a child begging to be pulled up. Alistair gently took each hand with his own and tugged her to her feet.

She wobbled, legs weak and unsteady after so long in disuse. One palm rested against Alistair's shoulder for support.

"You are not to overdo it," he insisted, ignoring her feigned annoyance and mutterings of how he ruined all of her excitement. Alistair held out one arm and she grasp it with both hands.

After an amount of indecision, Elissa took one initial, shaky stride forward. They moved slowly, steps in a trudging tandem as the couple inched around the room. More than once Elissa attempted to accelerate their pace and gait, only to be foiled Alistair's consistently slow, small footsteps. She smiled, equal parts amusement and irritation at his behavior.

Finally yielding to his speed, Elissa took the opportunity to study him. The deep lines around his eyes had faded, making him look younger. He had looked so aged when she first awoke. Yet even as they circled the room, he all smiles and teasing; she noted something distinctly different in him. Perhaps simply the strain of being a new monarch, though Elissa couldn't be certain. So utterly familiar and yet altered...

He interrupted her thoughts with a quip about her staring, and the pair fell back into their easy pattern of trading banter as they proceeded to the leaded windows.

Elissa moved to take in the view, bracing her palms on the sill. A rustle of silks behind her proceeded arms encircling her waist, all pretense of Alistair admiring the city-scene disappeared once he drew close and buried his nose in her hair.

"Can't bear the distance?" She asked as her eyes scanned the urban streets.

"No, never again," he answered with far more gravity than the prompting question.

"Alistair," she began quietly, trailing off as her eyes fixed on one carriage. Elissa knew it couldn't have been easy for him: the only surviving Warden and King all at once. Surely he blamed himself for her death as well as countless strangers destroyed in the Blight. But since she woke to find herself in the palace, he had avoided the subject. Perhaps he would finally share his burden with her.

"Yes, my dear?" she felt the rumble of his chest over the sound of his voice.

"Alistair," Elissa tried once more. The vehicle turned a corner, drawing closer to the palace. Elissa's eyes grew wide at the design on the coach door.

"Alistair," she started, finally succeeding in gaining his full attention. "That carriage bears the Cousland crest!"

-o-

_Idiot!_ Alistair silently admonished himself as he hurried down the stairs to receive his guest. Not only had the King managed to completely forget he had issued a summons to the Teyrn of Highever, he also neglected to tell Elissa that her brother Fergus was alive and traveling to the capital.

He shuddered at the memory. So caught up in his own euphoria with Elissa that he couldn't even remember Fergus Cousland had been discovered _after_ the Siege of Denerim. The subsequent shock and relief upon hearing her brother survived nearly sent her into a fainting spell. _Idiot!_ The chastising thought rang again.

Pausing on the lowest landing, he tugged at the hem of his silk doublet to smooth away the imagined wrinkles of fabric. Then straightening his posture, he stood as if preparing for battle.

Ridiculous, of course. It was only her brother. What could be the worst that could happen? He was, after all, the Teyrn's King. Remembering the savage scowl on Elissa's face as she cut down Arl Howe, Alistair gulped.

Resolutely, he descended the remaining stairs; all the while struggling to figure out how he found himself in the circumstance of telling two people their sibling lived, all in the same day.

-o-

"You overexerted yourself today," Wynne chided gently as she hung the dressing gown away in the wardrobe.

"You can hardly expect me to sit idle in bed all day," Elissa crossed her arms in a huff.

"Yes, I can," the mage retorted, closing the cabinet doors. "At least until you've taken the last of those potions."

"They taste vile, Wynne."

"So I imagine," the older woman answered crossing the room. Hesitantly, she lowered herself to sit on the bed and pulled the thick bedcovers up, tucking the fabric beneath Elissa's chin. "Do you know what it would do to him if something were to happen to you?"

She stilled, and then apologetically looked up at Wynne. "You're right, of course."

"Now," the mage insisted, "rest here. You heard Alistair say he will bring Fergus to you once he's spoken with him first."

"You mean once he's been forewarned that I'm back from the dead?" she asked with a belligerent pout.

Wynne met Elissa's eyes briefly, then glanced aside. Her lips pursed and eyes narrowed as she studied the floor. Her entire body held tense.

"Wynne," Elissa whispered, serious, "are you angry with me?"

Tension fled, but her eyes remained clouded, guarded. "No child, I am simply… concerned."

"What do you mean?" her eyebrows furrowed.

"There is much about the Fade that we don't know. And there is no way of telling if anything happened to you whilst you were…" she trailed off.

"Dead, you mean," Elissa finished. "Why is everyone so reluctant to speak of it?"

Wynne clasped her hands, looking down. "I simply worry about him… and you as well."

A memory flashed: the barren ground; the rotted, twisted tree; Elissa on a hill, searching; and the Spirit at her side.

_"She worries about him, you know?"/__"Who?"/__"The one you call Wynne."_

Elissa gasped for air as she struggled to surface from the depths of her recollection. Wynne placed her hands on her shoulders, demanding her to breathe.

"I…" Elissa gulped, "I remember."

"Remember what?" Wynne asked.

"Your Spirit," she panted, "I remember meeting your Spirit in the Fade. He told me his name."

The mage pulled her hands back immediately, as quickly as one retreating from a burning object. The stern continence of a mislead instructor washed over her.

"Fade Spirits do not take names," she insisted. "They assume attributes or have names given to them. You did not meet my Spirit."

"But he did, Wynne. He called himself Beathan."

Elissa looked in shock as Wynne stumbled from the bed and backed towards the door. "I must go check on Alistair and your brother," she offered lamely before fleeing the room, Elissa looking on in confusion.

-o-

_A/N: With the summer months comes an increase of work in real life, and holidays, the posting schedule may not be as consistent, which I'm sure you've already noticed (illness notwithstanding). Posting will be on weekends, but it may be on Sundays instead of Saturdays, or every other weekend._

_Secondly, thank you for reading. I appreciate receiving your comments or just seeing that another reader is following this story. In the coming chapters, I will be very curious to hear your reactions when the allegiances and situations that have been set up (or alluded to) come to a head and we move to the climax of the story._


	11. Chapter 10

_A/N: it should be noted for the purposes of this story, Alistair did not "need to talk" with Elissa following the Landsmeet. Thanks for reading!_

-o-

_"And now the imposter is off to the Anderfels," he said. "I half expect a letter to arrive from Weisshaupt any day demanding to know what I've done. You can bet that if anyone will know a fake Warden on sight, it would be them." -Chapter 3_

-o-

**Tearing the Veil**

-o-

**Chapter 10**

-o-

"Alistair," Elissa's wide smile greeted him as he returned to her chambers.

She sat upright on one side of the large bed, an array of pillows fanned out behind her. To her left, Fergus sat in an armchair that had been dragged from its location and placed beside her bed. Immediately to her right, her mabari curled up against her side, head resting on his paws while Elissa lazily stroked his ears.

_Traitorous dog! _Alistair's eyebrows furrowed as his eyes surveyed the hound's spot. _Didn't that mutt remember that had been Alistair's side?_

As if reading his thoughts, the hound's eyes opened and met his. The King almost swore the mabari flashed him a grin before pawing at the bedding, laying further claim to the place. The antics earned a soft laugh from his owner and an affectionate pat on the head.

_The blasted dog was worse than his old cat!_

"Fergus has just been telling me of all the progress he's made at Highever," she beamed and Alistair sank onto the mattress by the foot of the bed.

"Indeed," her brother replied easily. "Once you've fully recovered, I'll take you back home to see it."

Elissa beamed.

Alistair felt a rumble of unease in the pit of his stomach as he listened to her rapid round of questions she launched at her brother. All the specifics she remembered: each tapestry or hall; every member of the staff she couldn't recall seeing that night; all the nearby freeholders they regularly called upon; she inquired after them all. The King felt as a third party to the exchange, unfamiliar with the items, places, and families. He could only hope he masked his discomfort enough to fool the siblings.

She would return to Highever. _Of course_, she would want to see her home, he reasoned. But only for a visit, right? And as Alistair watched Elissa's growing excitement at the prospect of setting eyes on her home for the first time in over a year, he found himself ever more desperate to ensure she had reason to return.

He buried a hand in his pocket, nervous fingers enclosing around the object he held like a lifeline.

"I would be most happy to accompany you," Alistair found himself interjecting awkwardly, feeling ever more the foolish stable hand in the beat of silence that followed.

Had he not been paying attention to where the conversation had lead? He mentally chastised himself, unsure if he was worse as a pining man, or as a monarch.

"We would be honored for you to visit Highever, Your Majesty," Fergus answered in an even tone.

Alistair uttered his best attempt at a gracious response.

Elissa's mouth fell open. "Wha- No," she gaped. "No, the two of you can't do this!"

"Can't do what?" her brother asked.

"The two of you," she flicked her hand between the pair, "you can't be all titles and formalities around me. Not when it's just the three of us."

Her mabari lifted his head at her comment.

"Or four," she amended with a faint blush.

Fergus offered an amused smirk with Alistair. "Rather impertinent little chit, isn't she?"

Alistair felt the tension fade. His grip loosened on the golden weight and he removed his hand from the confines of his pocket.

"I wouldn't have her any other way," he grinned as his eyes locked with Elissa's.

-o-

Days later the Teyrn returned to Highever after extracting a promise from his sister to visit once she had fully recovered, which she readily agreed to provided Alistair would be joining her.

The morning following his departure, Elissa drifted lazily out of sleep, the warm, heavy remnants of dreams encircling her even as she attempted to pull herself into consciousness. Yawning, she stretched, cataloguing faint aches she had gained after falling asleep in the armchair. Reluctantly she finally opened her eyes…

And found a pair of eyes staring intently back at her.

"You were watching me sleep again," she observed, pulling the askew dressing gown over the exposed night robe.

Silence.

She swiped the fragments of nap from under her eyes. "Surely you have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Not a one," Alistair answered.

He was situated in the chair facing her, his elbows planted on his knees, back hunched over, hands clasped at his chin in that distinct 'thinking' pose she was so familiar with.

"You've done little else these past weeks."

He shook his head, dismissing her mild rebuke.

"I have something for you," he began, reaching a shaking fist into a pocket.

Elissa straightened her posture. "Yes?" she asked softly, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. His nervousness was catching.

Alistair reached out, drawing her hand to his. His fist rested above her outstretched palm.

He sat there, hovering between recklessness and caution. In truth, he supposed it wasn't brashness that spurred him on; this was what he wanted-what he'd wanted for weeks, months even.

A small inner voice of reason that sounded suspiciously like Wynne insisted he shouldn't worry, but as the seconds inched forward Alistair felt ever more the nervous soldier standing by the campfire: _"All right, I guess I don't really know how to ask you this."_

"Yes, I… ah, I want you to have this," he lurched forward, pressing the item into her palm. He tucked her fingers around the metal. A trickle of sweat skimmed down his brow. "I mean, that is if you want it."

Elissa looked down at their joined hands as nervous anticipation and understanding churned in her mind.

"I - I wanted to get something nicer, of course," he added in a hurried breath. "But, this was all I could afford at the time."

Slowly he withdrew his hand that was covering hers. Her fingers uncurled like a flower's petals greeting the spring, and resting on the center of her palm was a thin, gold band.

Elissa simply stared at the object, scarcely moving, and not making a sound.

"I know it's not what you deserve, that is, I mean, you deserve something much better. As it was, I saved coppers for months and this was the best I could manage."

She couldn't meet his eyes; she was utterly transfixed on the ring. Carefully, with such delicacy as would befit a ring of the thinnest glass, she held turned the object over in her hand.

The ring's surface was dull and scratched, though there was evidence of an attempt to restore the ring's original sheen, the array of nicks and indentations marred the finish. One side of the ring was dented, almost as though someone had pinched the ring tightly with their thumb and forefinger. It was simple and damaged. Hardly the proper ring befitting the daughter of a teyrn.

"I meant to give it to you long ago," Alistair's voice had taken on a high, nervous pitch. "Before the Landsmeet even. But there never seemed to be the right moment, and I kept thinking that if I waited just a little bit longer that I would find this _one_ perfect moment when everything would just fall together for just a second, and we could have that one single perfect moment."

Alistair exhaled sharply, self-disgust apparent. "But the longer I waited, the less likely it seemed that I would get a chance. And so right after the Landsmeet, I planned on asking you after- after the Siege, but…"

Elissa's eyes flicked up to his face, wordlessly indicating her understanding with a slight nod.

"You must know," he whispered, allowing himself the luxury tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "Surely you must know how much I love you. The weeks after, they were- they were _impossible_. And you may consider this horribly selfish of me, but I can't bear the thought of you not being there… here… with me… _ever_."

Elissa blinked repeatedly, a failing attempt to keep rebellious tears at bay, the emotions of all that had passed catching up to her in a rush. Her eyes fluttered back to the ring even as Alistair thumbed away the tracks of tears.

"So," she forced her gaze to his, prompting him, "you're asking me… what exactly?" Her hand closed around the ring, and forced a grin to cross her lips even through her tears.

"Blast it, I'm doing this all wrong," Alistair shook his head. "I'm asking you to marry me, which you very well know."

She laughed lightly.

"So… will you?" he couldn't help but feel nervous.

"I will," she answered seriously. "Of course I will." She pressed the ring into his palm and held out her hand for him to slide the ring on.

He hesitated. "I can get you something nicer. Something more befitting your rank… and mine," the afterthought came awkwardly. His rank, how _odd_. Then he felt more foolish than ever, of course he should have gotten a better ring, one that she deserved. "You deserve the world."

"Alistair, no," she insisted with a strong shake of her head. "This is perfect. This is the one I want."

His eyes met hers, and as he slipped the golden circle onto her finger he whispered, "This is the one I want, too."

-o-

Elissa strode to the wash stand; eyes fixed on the bottle perched near the edge. The small glass sat apart from all the others, while the various sizes of colored containers held perfumes and mouthwashes, contents to enhance the smell and taste, this lone bottle was a foreigner, a stranger, and today was the last time it would be tolerated.

The day had finally arrived: her last draught of restorative.

Soon it would all be over. After one last torturous round of bitter liquid metal it would all be over.

Elissa had dressed for the occasion, opting to mark her last day of aided healing by forgoing the dressing gowns she had favored as her muscles recovered. She had impressed herself, managing to struggle into the gown and get the laces half up before resorting to call one of the maids for assistance.

_The last time_, she reassured herself.

She stared down her crimson foe, crumbling the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. Abruptly, she threw the bunched material from her, and reached for the bottle. Dropping the cork aside, she drew the potion to her lips and tossed her head backwards.

Elissa held her breath as she willed herself not to smell, not to taste, just drink. Despite all attempts to the contrary she could still taste, still smell. And it was vile, far worse than the smell of months on the road, worse than a chalice of darkspawn blood.

The last drop slid down her throat and the glass shattered at her feet. Elissa dropped her head between her knees, breathing deeply to battle the violent desire to expel the potion from her body. At length the urge to heave lessened, and though still panting, Elissa frantically snatched the vial of mint water*, desperate to remove the terrible taste of copper…

"Maker, is that a dress?" Alistair startled as he paused at the threshold to her bedchamber later.

Elissa shrugged, bending to spit the mint water into the washbasin before turning to face him. A near hour of repetitive rinsings with the wash had brought moderate success. The worst of the potion's taste had lessened, but the remaining bitter metallic edge remained.

"This should come as no surprise," she reached for a towel to pat her mouth dry. "My father was a teyrn- I wasn't constantly raised in armor after all."

"I know, but," he stammered. "I've never _seen_ you in a dress before."

"Had you met me at Highever, you would have. Constantly in silks and rarely in leathers."

"To the talk of leathers already," he groaned, "and it's not even noon. You are a horrid tease."

She smirked. "I'm going to resume my training soon," she used the topic to transition into her announcement. She casually tossed the cloth on the washstand with the statement before turning back to Alistair, folding her arms together expectantly.

He nodded. "Alright."

Elissa's eyebrows rose dramatically. She had been expecting resistance, with either her relative health or his concern for her safety as the proffered excuse. But Alistair merely reached for one hand. His thumb brushed against the warm metal band, his attention lingering on the token. His anxiety could wait to be discussed another day.

"Come on," he gave her hand a light tug, "there's a man who's been at the front gate since daybreak demanding an audience."

"Capitulating to their demands already?" she teased.

"From what Eamon tells me, I think it might be best if we both meet him."

"Let's be off, then," she allowed him to lead her through her quarters into a long corridor. He rather awkwardly offered his arm which she silently took without comment. Courtly manners could be polished over time.

Halfway down the hallway, Zevran appeared. After passing along the location of their visitor, the Antivan continued with them, following behind the couple several paces.

As they approached the door, Elissa felt the familiar prickling of a third presence.

"A Grey Warden, then?" she asked Alistair lowly.

"From the Anderfels, apparently," he confirmed. "And not just any Grey Warden, but an emissary from Weisshaupt. Eamon tells me the man answers to 'Ottokar.'"

"'Guardian of the inheritance,'" Elissa reflected aloud, "how appropriate."

Alistair sniggered, "I certainly hope it's a name of the Wardens' giving, rather than his own."

A glance over his shoulder confirmed Zevran was no longer with them. Once he and Elissa had entered into the chamber, he tipped a slight nod towards one particular dim corner; and though he could not see the Antivan, he knew the acknowledgment was returned. Proper introductions were made between the King and the visitor, and Elissa watched from a slight distance.

"Ser," Alistair began smoothly, the weeks of training and audiences with nobles producing some yield, "how fortunate to find a fellow Grey Warden in Ferelden. Progress in Amaranthine continues; I imagine you will want to journey there shortly.

"Most convenient," Ottokar agreed gruffly. "But my business should not take me farther than Denerim."

Zevran's eyes narrowed to thin slivers, suspicion twisting his features. He surveyed the foreigner suspiciously from his corner. A tall man, hardened and imposing. His dark beard did little to soften the angular cut of his face, and instead made him look even more severe. The man's armor was of an unfamiliar northern design and glittered menacingly, like a fresh drop of blood hanging from a blade. He still processed his sword and shield even while in the presence of a monarch, a foolish oversight Zevran made note to mention to both Alistair and Eamon. But the assassin was more concerned about the dagger at the man's hip.

The assassin quickly took account of the number of guards present and their stations by the doors.

"Pardon me," the emissary's focus fell on Elissa, standing several paces away from Alistair. "I did not realize we had a sister present." His tone, however, reflected no surprise at the revelation.

"My apologies," Alistair hastened to make amends, holding out his hand towards Elissa which was accepted without comment. "May I present our fellow Grey Warden and the Hero of Ferelden."

Ottokar approached the pair, his footfalls heavy and confident. He was a man on a mission, an agent from a distant Warden Fortress sent seeking something…

Or some_one_.

Zevran realized with a start who the Ander's quarry was and began slinking out from his post in the shadows.

Ottokar halted abruptly before the King and bowed lowly to the pair. To anyone standing a further distance, it would appear that the Warden was simply paying respect to the King and the one who defeated the blight. Even the pair failed to notice how the man's body was angled slightly toward the King, as though he would rather endure the humiliation of bowing to the man over the woman.

Alistair looked quizzically at Elissa for guidance; Wardens bowed to no nation and even for a servant to bow so deeply would cause a moment's pause. While the two of them exchanged uncomfortable glances, Zevran focused on how the man's lips were moving. The elf inched closer, moving with a cat-like stealth to position himself behind the foreigner.

"What is done..." Zevran could barely make out the Ander's low chanting.

Zevran's hand rested upon the hilt of his dagger. Neither Elissa nor Alistair could make out the words, and Elissa moved towards the visitor, begging him stand and greet them as an equal.

"-is undone."

The trap had worked. Discomforts through excess courtesy dictated one of them seek to relieve the tension. How fortunate that the target had been the one to respond.

"The price is paid…"

The Warden Emissary reached for the dagger at his side, lunging for Elissa before he could complete the verse. She staggered back as Zevran sprung forward, leaping up to place his own weapon at the man's throat.

Elissa watched in shock as the scene unfolded in a blur of frantic activity. Zevran attempted to wrestle the much larger man to the ground while two guards moved to assist . Alistair took her by the arms, shouting orders over his shoulder to take the man alive, then checking to ensure the weapon had not reached its mark.

As guards hauled the man away he levied a withering look at Elissa, leaving her to wonder what crime he decided her guilty of. Even after the man was hauled away and Alistair and Zevran hovered with anxious questions, she still felt the heated fury of his eyes.

-o-

_*The mint water above is based on a mint mouthwash from _Bankes' Herbal_ (1525). The mouthwash is actually red wine vinegar poured over mint sprigs, but mint vinegar doesn't have quite the same ring, nor does it suggest a tie to something more pleasant like rosewater, so I took liberates._


End file.
